What hour this is I think I know,
Yet yonder clock won't have it so.
It rouses me from cozy bed,
insisting I rise NOW and go.
I find it drear to go unfed
and so befuddled in the head.
I'm launched too soon into my day,
unslept, unwashed, untoileted.
When early birdbrains worm their way
into my dreams each April, they
like Joshua adjust the sun
to light the night for golfers' play.
So now High Noon occurs at one
with all my errands yet unrun,
and months till daylight saving's done,
and months till daylight saving's done.